Chapter 27 Grant
“Grant, you need to leave now if you’re going to make it,” Teresa says, stopping just inside my office with her hands on her hips.
I shuffle papers around my desk, anything to distract me from needing to make my way to my parent’s upper-crust club.
I’ve thrown myself into work the last few days, anything to distract myself from the impending doom of my mother’s birthday dinner.
With the best puppy dog eyes I can manage, I ask, “Do I have to?”
“Stomp your foot and maybe you’ll get your way.”
“Are you sure you don’t have an emergency meeting I need to attend?” Ordinarily I wouldn’t risk jinxing myself, but that’s how desperate I was to get out of this dinner. I’d take one for the team and have a Friday afternoon meeting in a heartbeat over this.
She plops into the chair in front of my desk and crosses her arms. “Alright, get it out. Why don’t you want to go?”
“I never want to go,” I remind her.
Teresa hits me with the mom stare. “This is more than normal.”
“Taylor being back has brought up all the past hurts they’ve caused. I’ve managed to get to a place of tolerance with my family over the last few years, but what happens when they find out that she’s back in my life?”
It’s all I’ve been able to think about this week after her closed off reaction to traveling back to the city with me. Our time in the dugout has been on my mind too. I shouldn’t have gone there with her, shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me.
“Is she back in your life?”
“I want her to be. We haven’t exactly talked about where our relationship stands, but we left things on a good note when I left on Monday.”
“If you’re going to make this work, you have to talk to her.”
“I know.” I groan and rub circles on my temples. “I know. I don’t want to lose her again. I can’t help but worry that my family is going to ruin it all over again.”
“You don’t need their approval anymore, Grant.”
“I didn’t need their approval then. If I did, I wouldn’t have shirked my duties to the family business.”
“On some level, even when starting this company, you’ve still been seeking their approval. You’ve been out to prove to everyone around you that you can survive without the Davenport name—in spite of it.”
I quirk a brow at her. “I thought this was supposed to be a pep talk.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It is. What I’m trying to say is you can’t control how they respond, Grant. It’s also none of your business what they say.”
“How can you say that? She’s my wife.”
“That’s true, and I know you want to protect her, but what other people say behind your back or hers is for them. It’s not for you.”
“Go on,” I consider her words carefully.
“It’s not an easy lesson to learn. Do you think people didn’t have something to say when me and my husband got together? I’ve been called the gold digger before.”
“You could never be a gold digger. You like to work too much.” I wink at her.
“Or is it that I just like you, hmm?”
That gives me pause. I knew she enjoyed working at Stella Holdings, but had she really been putting off retirement for me?
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Teresa, but you know you can retire anytime you want, right?”
“Pssh, I know that. I’m right where I want to be.
My point is, I know a thing or two about public perception, and I think it’s why I relate to Taylor.
Her only crime was loving you. You two did the best you knew how to do at the time, but you have new tools now.
You’re older. You have more life experience. ”
“I just hope that’s enough,” I mutter as I stand and fold my suit jacket over my arm. “How do I look?”
She gives me a once over. “Like you’re going to a funeral or a meeting with the mafia.” I’m wearing all black from head to toe, complete with a black dress shirt under my black vest.
“Dinner for Constance Davenport could be considered a mafia gathering.”
“As long as she doesn’t think it’s a wedding,” Teresa jests, but my mother is known for arranging dates for her single sons. “I ordered a gift. It’s in the car out front. Go, before you’re late and make it ten times worse.”
“Wish me luck.” I kiss her cheek on the way out of my office, then hurry to the elevator and out the front doors onto the busy Manhattan street where my driver waits.
Almost an hour later, we’re pulling to a stop under the porte cochère of the country club.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the encounter.
I hate it’s like this. I hate never knowing what to expect when I see my parents.
I hate that the few times a year I actually spend time around them causes me more stress than a company takeover, and I hate that I can't remember the last time I thought time with them was good. But trying to take Teresa’s words to heart, I step out of the car once the valet opens it and button my jacket.
“Mr. Davenport, welcome back,” the twenty-something says, and I nod, leaving him at the car and making my way up the grand entrance stairs.
He was here the last time I visited, but I don’t remember his name.
I do everything I can to avoid details of this place.
Much to my father’s chagrin, I didn’t follow in his footsteps and join the club as a legacy member.
There’s nothing here except pretentious old money and even older world outlooks, meaning there is nothing here for me.
The attendant opens the door once I reach the top of the stairs.
In this place, a member or guest doesn’t lift a finger unless they insist on doing something themselves.
The hostess greets me with a bright smile, but I turn down the opposite hallway, bypassing the bar, lounge, and dining room entirely.
My parents are standing outside the private dining room greeting their guests. Of course, this isn’t a simple family dinner. No, they have to invite all their friends to schmooze. It’s obnoxious. I already can’t wait to leave.
“Mother,” I lean down and press a kiss to her cheek, handing her the small gift box. She passes it off to her ever-present personal assistant without a second glance.
“Grant, how good of you to come.” She says it like I don’t always come to her birthday dinner.
“Father.” I hold out my hand to shake his. He inspects it before firmly gripping my hand in a power move.
“Son,” he reminds me, as if I could forget.
“Oh, Melody.” My mother waves to a brunette in a yellow dress. “Over here, darling. Oh, you look stunning.” She grips the woman’s arms and gives an air kiss to each cheek. I barely suppress my eye roll at her theatrics.
“Mrs. Davenport. Thank you for inviting me. Happy Birthday.”
“Thank you, dear. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for you to meet my Grant.” Mother loops her arms through mine and leans into me.
What the fuck?
“It’s nice to meet you. Constance has told me a lot about you.
” Melody holds out her hand. I notice the pristine manicure and silver jewelry adorning her fingers and wrist. Following her arm up to her face, I take in her makeup painted on in a way to make it look effortless but surely took her half the day.
Melody blushes and bats her fake eyelashes at me. Oh, fuck, I know that look.
“What is this?” I look to my mother for the answer I know is coming.
“Melody is your date tonight. Take her inside and offer her something to drink.”
My father gives me a stern look that says there will be no discussion on the matter and, like the dutiful son I’ve been molded into, I hold my hand out for Melody to enter the dining room before me. I won’t be touching her, that’s for damn sure.
“Constance is so amazing,” Melody preens. Clearly, she knows nothing about me or my family because the way to get close to me is not by commending the ridiculous antics of my mother.
“Can I get you something to drink?” My manners take over on autopilot. It’s not this poor girl’s fault that she’s become a pawn in another Davenport dinner subterfuge.
“Champagne, please.” She smiles and delicately sits in the cushioned high-back chair with her name placard in front of it.
I walk to the bar set up in the corner and order a champagne for Melody and a bourbon for myself, downing the two fingers in one gulp as soon as the bartender passes it to me. I’ve signaled for him to pour another when a hand lands on my back in a rough slap.
“Grant, good to see you,” Carter greets me, nodding his head to the bartender to pour a second glass of bourbon.
“You, too.”
Over the years, I’ve mended some of my relationships with my brothers. Reginald and I still don’t see eye to eye, but Nathaniel and Carter were my best friends growing up and closest to my age.
“Did mother dearest have a date waiting for you tonight as well?”
“Sure did,” I say, pointing to Melody sitting at the table. She’s checking her makeup in a pocket-sized mirror. “Who’s yours?”
“Holly Diane,” he grumbles and nods to a blonde who is staring back at us. “Shit you not, that’s how she introduced herself, fake southern accent and all.”
“Jesus, where does she find these girls?”
“Daughters of her tennis friends,” Nathaniel says joining us. “I got stuck with Madison Clark.”
“Hey, dickheads. Order me a drink,” Madison interrupts. “I don’t want to be here with you either, Nathaniel, so don’t flatter yourself.”
“You wound me.” Nathaniel hands her Melody’s champagne.
“That was for my . . . never mind,” I start to protest before I remember I don’t care. Ordering another glass, I leave my brothers and sit down beside Melody at the same time as my mother glides into the room like she’s the queen of the country club. Problem is, she is the queen around here.
“If everyone can take their seats. Dinner is served,” my father announces, helping my mother into the chair beside the head of the table before he assumes his place at the head.
Chatter picks up around me as the servers place the salads on the table. Melody is quiet throughout the entire meal unless directly spoken to. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or if she’s playing the part of a dutiful date.
Dinner passes relatively quickly for an extensive affair, and the guests start to leave. I’ve almost escaped unscathed when my father orders, “Sons, you will stay for a family dessert.”
Melody turns to me at the door. “I had a great time tonight. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not available.”
“Oh.” She visibly deflates. “Constance didn’t tell me that.”
“Tell you what, dear?” Of course, mother had to choose this second to pay attention.
“Nothing.” I say at the same time as Melody responds, “Grant is taken.”
“No, he’s not.” My mother laughs.
“Yes, I am.” I’m quickly losing patience with this charade.
Appearance means everything to Constance Davenport, and she won’t have a family squabble witnessed.
Her saccharine smile is firmly in place for Melody as she bids her goodbye.
As soon as Melody is gone and the remainder of the guests are out of the room, mother turns her ire on me.
“Grant Davenport, you dare embarrass me.”
“I didn’t embarrass you, mother. You did that yourself when you blindsided us all with dates to your birthday dinner.” I brush past her and down to the private lounge where my father always insists we hold our private family desserts, also known as drinks with a side of interrogation.
“Dear, talk to Grant. He told that poor girl he was not available,” my mother fusses, following me into the room.
“Because I’m not,” I shout.
“Did you meet someone?” Reginald asks from his chair by the fireplace.
This is my fault. I should’ve known this was coming and prepared better.
“Taylor’s back,” Theodore supplies and I’m confused how he knows that. “What? I saw her in pictures from that charity event you hosted.”
“That girl is bad news,” my mother grouses.
“That girl is my wife.”
“I thought you settled that years ago.” My father regards me. The expectation was that we were divorced when she initially sent the papers. I just never told my family that I never signed them.
“We’re still married.”
“She always was after your money. Now she’s back and playing you for a fool.” The disdain in my father’s voice has my temper flaring.
“You don’t know her. You never gave her a chance. You hated her from the minute you found out about her.”
My mother rolls her eyes. “Please, she’s not made for this life.
She proved that when she disappeared and wouldn’t speak to you.
If she really loved you, she wouldn’t have left in the first place or taken this long to magically show back up in your life, but if that’s really someone you want to waste your time on, then by all means, just don’t say we didn’t warn you. ”
“You’ve all made your displeasure known. But let me make myself perfectly clear—Taylor is in my life and if you can’t get over whatever the hell this is and be okay with that, then you won’t be. Are we done here?”
I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I remember I have free will and leave. It might come back to bite me in the ass, but I can’t sit through another minute of them bashing Taylor to my face. How can we move on if the ghosts of our past are always going to be there to hold it against us?
That question plagues me all the way back to my brownstone and well into the weekend.